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by uniquepov



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniquepov/pseuds/uniquepov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A particularly difficult case causes James to re-examine his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [dkwilliams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/gifts).



> Mildly AU pre- _Dead of Winter_ , in which Hathaway wraps up the Zelinsky case and testifies some time BEFORE the events at Crevecoeur.
> 
> Thank you to wendymr and tehomet for the incredibly helpful beta work. I truly appreciate your help! I continued to tinker after they looked it over, as one does, and bear full responsibility for any errors that I may have inserted.

_You didn’t find her._

James’s words echoed in his head as Robbie watched his sergeant trudge outside for a smoke. Hathaway normally slouched a bit, the telltale habit of a too-tall, too-clever kid trying to blend in. Tonight, though, James’s shoulders were hunched protectively over his chest, as though the lad was trying to curl in on himself.

Robbie knew the feeling. He’d seen so much horror and death over the years, ever since his early days as Morse’s bagman, and he’d never been able to forget a single victim. As a young man, he’d been able to go home, throw back a whisky or two, and hold on to Val – and later, to Val and the kids – until he could close his eyes without seeing broken, mutilated bodies. Now, years later, Robbie still remembered every victim, but only a handful haunted his dreams.

Robbie contemplated James’s half-finished pint. James was an awkward sod, no question, but the lad had a good heart. He was a smart copper; a brilliant partner. Who did James turn to for comfort, Robbie wondered? It bothered Robbie that he had no answer.

***

James stumbled home from the pub, half-drunk with ale and regret, haunted by visions of the young girl whose body currently occupied one of Doctor Hobson’s post-mortem suites.

He let himself into his flat, leaning heavily against the door once it had swung shut behind him. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The contents of his front room slowly emerged out of the shadows, coming into focus in the borrowed light of the streetlamp on the corner. A car’s headlights flashed past, momentarily washing the room in light. James heaved himself away from the door, lowering himself onto his usual chair whilst groping behind him for his instrument case.

He nudged the lid open, his fingers closing around the neck of his Gibson. Taut strings dug into the pads of his palm as he pulled the guitar into his lap.

He strummed his fingers over the strings, fingering the frets casually, checking the tuning. Satisfied, he began to play aimless chords that gradually became _Adante y Rondo_ , which flowed seamlessly into Schubert’s _Ave Maria_ , which in turn morphed into the opening strains of Cocciante’s _Ave Marie Païen_.

James had always found solace in music. Even in the seminary, during meditation, his mind would fill with faint strains of songs. No doubt one of the many reasons he was not suited for such a calling. 

His fingers slipped, the discordant tone jarring in the stillness. He laid the guitar aside.

Wolfgang Christ, they'd called him, and he had embraced the name. Embraced what he saw to be his dual purpose.

How had he ended up here, amidst this blood and death?

Heaven only knew.

With music no longer a comfort, James slid to his knees and prayed. For the girl, and for himself.

***

The next day found James with a rare day off. The case had been closed, the paperwork sorted, and they were last on the rotation for any callouts. He had managed to make his way into bed, but his dreams had been filled by visions of the girl’s mutilated remains. Her clouded, sightless blue eyes stared accusingly, demanding answers James didn’t have.

He’d woken early, groggy and nauseous from exhaustion and heartache. He slumped in the chair, elbows leaning heavily on the table, fingers wrapped tightly around a mug of tea as though it held the answers to all his questions.

Cases like this one always disturbed him, but this one was different. Perhaps it was the religious imagery the killer had favoured, choosing to torture and mutilate his victim on a church altar, but James found himself reliving the crime scene investigation over and over, the girl’s eyes following his every move, unsettling him.

The building had been deserted for some time, as parishes combined and had no need for multiple churches, and the victim, a runaway from up in the Lake District, had been squatting in the abandoned church. No doubt she’d thought herself safe there, sheltered and protected. James wondered whether the girl had believed in God when she’d chosen her hiding spot. Whether she still believed, as she’d drawn her last, agonised breath.

Doctor Hobson had said that the girl had endured a large part of the torture before finally succumbing to her injuries. Then Laura had looked at his face, and pressed her lips together, and told him that any further details would have to wait for the post-mortem.

James rattled around his empty flat, unable to concentrate. He’d given up reading as a bad job early on, and he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to even attempt music. Finally he stood, pulling a long-sleeved sweatshirt over his head as he walked out the door.

***

James’s feet took him on a tour of Oxford, down the riverbank and along the towpath, through narrow cobbled alleys, until he found himself outside the seminary. He paused, staring up at the window that had been his cell's, remembering his time there.

It had begun as one of the happiest times in his life. For perhaps the first time, he’d felt like he belonged somewhere, had been amongst other people who thought about the world the way he did. He was no longer an outsider.

But eventually, his past had caught up with him, leaving him in the throes of a crisis of faith so profound that he questioned the very existence of God; something that would have been anathema to him just a few short weeks earlier.

Meditation, prayer, solitude, reflection; none of this had helped him pull free of the quagmire he’d found himself in. He’d gone to the other students, then to the brothers; he’d even tried to get an appointment with the bishop. Eventually, his mentor had found him at prayer one night after Evensong and told him, gently, that perhaps James had another calling to pursue. He’d fought it for a few days, struggling to hold on to the only place that had ever felt like a _home_ to him, but eventually he had realised the truth. And once he had, he’d packed his meagre belongings and slunk away like a thief in the night, unwilling to face the others.

James took a deep breath, and pushed the chapel door open, pausing just inside to allow his eyes time to adjust. The church hadn’t changed in the intervening years. Perhaps that had been no small part of the initial draw to his younger self; the sense of security, of continuity, or being a part of something much larger than oneself, which had existed for generations and would continue on, regardless of his own trifling actions.

A home that would stand the test of time, and always remain as a place of welcome and shelter for her children.

Only it hadn’t worked for their victim. And in the end, it hadn’t worked for him, either.

***

James found himself walking towards Lewis’s part of town before he had consciously realised where he was heading. He paused on the corner, running his thumb along the edge of his mobile, stuffed in a pocket, before discarding the idea of ringing him up. A phone call would make Lewis think they had a call out, and he’d feel obliged to answer his mobile. Better to just see if the man was in. Perhaps he’d fancy a pint, or a takeaway.

James rang the bell and waited, feeling the almost desperate relief wash over him as he heard Lewis on the other side of the door, cursing at the lock. The door swung open, and Lewis’s face instantly softened as he recognized James standing on the step.

“Come in, lad.” Lewis swung the door wide as he stepped back to allow James entry. “I wondered if I’d be seeing you.”

“I’m sorry.” James ducked his head contritely. “I should have rung. I’m sure I’m the last person you want to see, on your day off.”

“I wouldn’t quite say that,” Lewis corrected, his tone a hair’s breadth sharper than it should have been. “Just… come in, James.”

***

Robbie was unsurprised to see James show up on his doorstep on their day off. He’d seen the lad off the night before, and known that he just couldn’t let this one go. The brutality of the crime, the condition – and location – of the body; no, he’d have been very surprised if James could have got past this one on his own. He gestured to the sofa.

“Newcastle’s finest?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” James breathed. Robbie gave him a shrewd look, but simply grabbed another bottle and popped it open, handing both a glass and a bottle to James, who set the glass down and promptly began drinking from the bottle – a rare event for his normally fastidious sergeant.

Robbie knew enough to let the silence stretch until James was ready to speak. He wondered, as he sipped at his own ale, what James had got up to all day – since it was close on tea time and the lad looked rather the worse for wear. 

At length, James cleared his throat. “I can’t get her out of my head. And the fact that the bloody murderer – who _confessed_ , thank you very much – is being remanded for a psychiatric evaluation rather than going straight to prison.”

“I know, lad.” Robbie’s voice was kind, softened with decades of experience. “I know.”

“You didn’t _see_ her.”

“But there’ve been others. Too many to count, in fact.”

James stared at him, pain and betrayal written over every line of his face. “All the things he did to her –“

“Don’t think on it, James. Does no good and you’ll only drive yourself mad.”

“How…?”

“You find something to hold on to,” Robbie told him gently. “Something, or someone, to hold on to.”

James hunched his shoulders, staring into his bottle, and Robbie was reminded of his musings from the night before; about whom James turned to for comfort. 

_Me,_ Robbie thought, the flash of inspiration searing into his brain like lightning. _He turns to me._

“James.”

Though he kept his tone soft, James startled at the sound, one hand moving to brace himself against the sofa cushions. Robbie reached out, laying his square hand over James’s slender one and squeezing gently. James closed his eyes and drew a long, shuddering breath. James’s hand turned beneath his own, palms together, fingers interlocking as James squeezed back in quiet desperation. James’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, and he shook his head and gripped Robbie’s hand tightly.

Robbie let the silence stretch between them once more, comforting James in the only way he knew how. He could feel James’s hand trembling in his own, quivering with emotions he could not put into words. When Robbie finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.

“I’ll be right here, lad. For as long as you need.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested, the music James plays can be found here:
> 
>  
> 
> [Andante and Rondo by Dionisio Aguado](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=haLxgRY9Sdo)  
> [Ave Maria by Franz Schubert](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LNUJA9N14eM)  
> [Ave Maria Païen by Riccardo Cocciante](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7Swdz7wyfM)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Home by uniquepov](https://archiveofourown.org/works/931990) by [fire_juggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_juggler/pseuds/fire_juggler)




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